


Don't Feel Bad For The Suicidal Cats,

by Shaleschnueffler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anchors, Anger, Angst, Betrayal, Confusion, Coping, Crying, Death, Death Wish, Depression, Desperation, Episode: s02e15 Tall Tales, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Episode: s05e08 Changing Channels, Episode: s05e19 Hammer of the Gods, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, Fear, Fear of Death, Feelings, Guilt, Headcanon, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Music, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Narcissism, Nine Lives, Pain, Past Relationship(s), Running Away, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 05, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Self-blaming, Selfishness, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Free Will, Tricksters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaleschnueffler/pseuds/Shaleschnueffler
Summary: gotta kill themselves nine times before they get it right.





	Don't Feel Bad For The Suicidal Cats,

**Author's Note:**

> The thought came to me, and so I wrote. Had Alec Benjamin's "If I Killed Someone For You" on loop all the time. Title inspired by Fall Out Boy's "West Coast Smoker".  
> Finally back to my angsty pieces, heh.  
> Enjoy~

Gabriel had always overestimated his opponents. Either that, or he had underestimated his Father.  
  
It had started when he'd run from home, when he'd left heaven and become a trickster instead, desperate to escape from his brothers' arguing and brawling and battling. He hadn't been able to stand the fights between Michael and Lucifer anymore. And so he'd left. Run off like a coward, hidden away from both angels and demons. Hidden away from anything and everything that hadn't been supposed to see.  
  
It had been fine at first, great even. He'd needed time to get over it, to forget, and to adjust, but once he'd found a body, and a way, and once he'd gotten used to his new name, life had been simple. And fun. His killings had been cruel, and his methods brutal but hey, it had been his style after all - Making myths reality, turning legends into truths, carrying out tales to extinguish the evil that stained his father's beautiful creation. He'd needed to vent, to let it all out. To punish someone.  
  
He'd enjoyed it, just as much as tricking hunters, just as much as his relationship with Kali and his time with the other Pagans. It had been good. Until everything he'd known about, everything he'd tried to ignore and push aside, had tumbled down. Until Sam and Dean Winchester had barged in without a warning. Until they had kicked off the apocalypse, until they had unleashed hell, until they had broken his perfect world; until everything had fallen apart. His life, his plans, his family. Both his heavenly and his pagan one.  
  
He'd spent years on earth. Decades. Always waiting for everything that he'd _known_ had been going to happen, to happen. But when it _had_ happened, he hadn't been prepared. Not in the slightest. He'd been scared. Scared for his life, scared for his family, scared for heaven and earth. He'd always been scared. And he would always be. Even with Lucifer back in the cage, even with the apocalypse stopped. Because, no matter what, his brothers had still been fighting. And they would always be, forever.  
  
When pieces had started to fall into place, he'd panicked.  
  
And so he'd gone and confronted the Winchesters, hoping he'd be able to stop it all from taking place. That was when it had first happened - when he'd first felt this pang of hopelessness, when he'd first seen his chance to escape, to get away, to let go of his grief. He'd just wanted to have his fun with the brothers, had just wanted to play them a little longer, had just wanted to get this _kick_ , this _high_ one more time; had just wanted to _go out with a bang_. He'd overestimated them. They'd left without looking twice. He'd been left to go on. Alone.  
  
And just like that, he'd wasted his first life.  
  
\--

  
  
His plan had always been to either kill or prepare them for what had been yet to come. And so he'd done both. Had killed Dean, over and over and over again - because frankly, although it surely hadn't been the smartest thing he could've done; keeping Sam Winchester alive, Lucifer's true vessel of all people, he'd had to admit that he'd liked the kid, more than he should have.  
  
It had gotten boring after time. And it had hurt; just a little. He'd watched him suffer, and try, and despair, for hundreds of days, without stepping in, not once; until he'd had enough, until he hadn't been able to stand it anymore. And that had been when Sam had finally managed to connect the dots.  
  
He'd let them go, had given the hunter the Wednesday he'd begged for. But he hadn't been done yet. Because Sam hadn't learned yet. Because he hadn't _wanted_ to learn.  
  
Sam had needed months to find him after Dean had died, actually died. When there'd been no new Tuesday, no Asia, no repetitions. When things had been final - or supposed to be final.  
  
He'd given Sam a speech, had tried to explain it all to him, had talked about his brother being his weakness. He hadn't been able to keep going. It had hurt too much. He'd snapped Sam back to this Wednesday when he'd asked for it. Again, left to go on. Only this time, it had been even worse.  
  
He'd never meant to be so bad to him.  
  
And all that had cost him his second life.  
  
__

 

  
Things had been worse. And it had been enough. Worse had been enough.  
  
But _he_ , being himself? He'd made it worst.  
  
He'd been desperate. Desperate to prepare the hunters, desperate to make them give in and be the vessels they'd been meant to be; desperate to save his brothers, and his family, and his home.  
  
He'd tried. He'd tried to win them over to play their roles. He'd hurt them, and embarrassed them, and he'd made them do things they'd never wanted to do; things _no one_ had ever wanted to do. Not only during the television shows, but before, and after. He'd always been an enemy to them. With no intention of changing that. Because if they considered him an enemy, they would want nothing more than his death. At least one thing they'd had in common.  
  
He'd been both sure and fond of his plan. Killing two birds with one stone. Maybe three birds, maybe four. He hadn't cared, as long as he'd been going to be one of them.  
  
That they found out about his identity hadn't been part of this plan. But he'd been able to adapt. And it had taken him less than a minute to realize that it hadn't been a bad thing, not at all. Killing something had always been easier if you knew what it was. He'd been confident. He'd been hopeful.  
  
But again, things hadn't worked out in the end. Of course they hadn't. Maybe because his Father hadn't wanted him to die. Maybe because he'd overestimated them. Again. Every time.  
  
The men had spared his life, had freed him from the circle of holy oil, had left him standing underneath the sprinklers, miserable, and soaked, and lost. They'd known what he'd attempted, they'd known what he'd done, to them, to all those people, to heaven. And still, they'd left him, alive. Despite all his efforts to make them _blind_ with rage, despite their _desire for revenge_. Despite all his killings and his cold-blooded murders. Despite his selfishness and his egoism. Despite everything he'd put Sam through.  
  
_He'd never meant to be so bad to him._  
  
And so his third life had been lost.  
  
\--

  
He'd decided to pay them back. And it had been supposed to be the last time they were ever going to lay eyes on him.  
  
He'd burst into the motel, uninvited and unexpected; unloved and unwanted; and ready to die for his family. Ready to die for the two men that had been supposed to solve everything, to solve it all, all the conflicts and the difficulties and the problems and the debts that he'd had to face and fear in his life. He'd been ready to die for a good cause. And he'd been ready to die for a bad one.  
  
Ready to die for anything, _anything at all._  
  
Considering his disposition, it had taken a long time until he'd eventually bid farewell to his fourth life.  
  
He'd still been standing, had still been breathing. And his family, his friends, had still been locked in.  
  
The thought had crossed his mind that maybe, all his Father had wanted from him had been two attempts before he made it final. Maybe all his Father had wanted had been a clear sign, a final decision, _determination_. Maybe his Father had simply been unsure. Maybe his Father had loved him too much to let go.  
  
And so he'd tried, again.  
  
He'd watched Lucifer stab him without hesitation, had seen the regret in his brother's eyes and the pain in his own, before Lucifer had left; leaving Gabriel standing there, alone, staring down at his own dead body. Internally, he'd been screaming, yelling at his brother, begging him to _think_ , to _keep going_ , to be _smart_ but he hadn't been able to speak up, his heart rapidly pounding in his chest.  
  
He'd felt numb. His heart had ached. The silence had been overwhelming. He'd been wondering, why, just _why_ his Father hadn't been able to _let go_.  
  
Only then had he realized that maybe, it had never been them. That maybe, it had always been him.  
  
He'd laughed, feeling bitter and cold, lost and broken, hopeless and pained. He'd looked down at his own, trembling hands, had seen the scars and the wounds and the guilt in his palms; had seen the blood dripping down his fingers, soaking his clothes red. He'd been alone, _so_ _alone_. So lonely.  
  
He'd seen his surroundings blur as he'd laughed through the tears.  
  
He'd been stupid, so stupid. So _selfish_. So _full of himself_. He'd felt sick. He'd wanted to throw it all up, to get rid of the emotions, the feelings, the pain and the guilt and the emptiness. He'd choked on his tears, had fallen to his knees, had yelled and cried and shouted; had screamed and cursed, had accused the world, his Father, his brothers and sisters, _everyone but himself_.  
  
He'd been angry, so angry. So tired.  
  
He'd hated himself.  
  
He hadn't overestimated his enemies, not ever, not once. They hadn't been too _dull_ , or too _stupid_ , or too _complacent_ to see through his tricks. His Father had never loved him too much to let go; or hated him too much to release him from his sorrows and his pain, to put him out of his misery. He hadn't _accidentally outplayed_ his opponents. He hadn't been too smart. He hadn't. Not ever. Not once. He'd simply been a coward. He'd been scared. Scared of death, scared of The Empty. Too scared of fighting, too scared of dying. And so he'd run. Always, anytime, he'd run. All this time, he'd been nothing but a coward. And he would always be.  
  
But he hadn't wanted to.  
  
He hadn't wanted to be a coward.  
  
And so he'd given his brother his fifth life.  
  
\--

  
He'd been lonely, more lonely than ever before. He'd wanted to run, to get away, to escape. To set out and never return. But he hadn't wanted to be a coward. Not again, not ever again. He hadn't known where to go.  
  
He'd needed weeks until he'd realized that maybe, it hadn't been his fear that had kept him from leaving for good. Because, after all, hope came in many different, partly weird and unexpected, ways. And his appeared to have come as two men willing to put anything on the line to save his Father's creation. To save him. He hadn't known why. He'd never known. And he never would. But he hadn't needed to.  
  
There had always been a glimmer of hope. He'd been too caught up in self-pity and running away to realize. But there had _always_ been hope. All this time. And he'd killed it. He'd drowned it, and choked it, and ripped it to pieces. There had been hope, and he'd thrown it away. He'd realized now, though. He'd understood.  
  
But it hadn't mattered.  
  
It had been too late.  
  
Lucifer had taken a life from him.  
  
But when he'd realized, realized that he'd never been hopeless; not always, not fully; it had almost felt like he'd been gifted another life. He'd accepted it, gratefully. He hadn't known how many he'd had left. He'd never known.  
  
\--

  
He'd gone through a lot since then. Pain, torture, doubt, guilt. He'd been taught what craving death _really_ felt like. He'd been so tired. Like everything he'd realized, everything he'd found, had been taken away. All this trying, all this going on, all this holding out, all this holding on. All this wasted effort. All this pain.  
  
He would've laughed if he'd been able to. He hadn't.  
  
He would've cried if he'd been able to. He hadn't.  
  
He'd sat, and stared, and thought. Had felt his heart throb. And he'd hated every single beat. He'd hated every single breath. He'd hated the scars, he'd hated the bruises, he'd hated the pain. He'd hated himself.  
  
He'd laid on the floor, bloodshot eyes set on the ceiling.  
  
He'd wanted to die.  
  
He'd been ready to die. He'd been _willing_ to die. For the first time in his life, _for the first time in his whole goddamn life_ , he'd been willing to die, to die and to never come back. To throw everything away that he'd still had left - his body, his mind; his life. It hadn't been a lot. It had never been a lot. He'd lost his free will, his grace, his hope. He'd lost it all. There had been no tricks, no pranks, no way to deceive or play his enemies, not this time, not once. He'd tried at first. Had tried to hold on, had tried to hope. Until he hadn't been able to raise his voice anymore. Speaking had hurt, and standing had hurt; and moving had hurt, and thinking had hurt. Everything had hurt. And he'd hated it all.  
  
The anger had returned to him. Anger and hatred, guided at himself, for placing trust in someone whose heart had been too cold to keep it in; guided at his absent and cruel and horrible coward of a Father, for being worse than _he_ had ever been; guided at his childish and petty brothers, for _everything_ they'd caused, _everything_ they'd destroyed; guided at his family for letting him down, and at the two men, two _friends_ , for giving up on him.  
  
He hadn't known how, _he would never know how_ , but he'd gotten away. Had run, not knowing where he'd been going but it hadn't mattered. They'd been after him; angels, hunters, demons, monsters. He'd had nothing. And he'd been so close to ending it all. To turning around, to going down surrendering. To giving up. To being the coward he'd never wanted to be. To wasting another life.  
  
He'd almost had. He _would_ have.  
  
If it hadn't been for Sam Winchester.  
  
Because it had always been him.  
  
Despite the pain, and the doubt, and the disappointment, it had always been him.  
  
And Sam Winchester had been the one who'd caught him when he'd realized he'd had to let go of his sixth life.  
  
\--

  
  
He hadn't understood how, or why, Sam and Dean had been willing to offer him a place in their little messed-up family. He'd never understood. And he never would. But he'd been grateful, more grateful than ever. And so he'd gone with them, and he'd fallen in love, over and over again. It had been him after all.

He'd realized he'd been lost. He'd realized he'd hidden. Hidden behind smiles, and laughter, and jokes.  
  
He hadn't needed to hide anymore. He'd still smiled, and laughed, and joked. But he'd felt at peace. He'd still felt a little pained, a little unsteady. But he'd been happy. For the first time since he'd run from home; he'd truly been happy.  
  
He'd lost more lives along the way, somewhere, sometime, but it wasn't like it had mattered. Like he'd _cared_. He hadn't known where, and when, and how. But he hadn't needed to know. He would never need to know. He'd stopped trying to count after the sixth anyway. When things had started to make sense again. When he'd realized that he'd mattered to someone again. When he'd found everything he'd thought he'd lost before. Grace and hope and love and will.  
  
When he'd felt okay again.  
  
\--

  
  
It had been ironic, really.  
  
_A single tear was shed when the flames spread._  
  
He'd never wanted to die a hero. He'd always wanted to leave either silently, or with a bang. Not like this. Never like this. But he'd had to. It had been him.  
  
_Hands clenched and unclenched as warm breath turned into white fog in the cold winter night._  
  
And yet, his final glance had been into hazel ones; widened in shock and fear, as realization had dawned. Because it had always been him. In the pain, and the doubt, and the disappointment. He'd given nine lives for one. But it had been him. It had always been him.  
  
_Curses and cusses were screamed into nothingness; paining anyone they reached._  
  
He'd been grateful. Grateful to his present and loving and wonderful hero of a Father, for being better than _he_ had ever been; for not giving up on him; grateful to his loyal and strong brothers, for everything they'd accomplished, despite all the _pain_ and _hurt_ and _sorrow_ ; grateful to his family for building him up, and to the two men, two _friends_ , for _always_ believing in him. Grateful to him. It had always been him. Always, anytime.  
  
_Anger gave way for despair; legs yielded, knees hit frozen ground, palms hurting from the cold._  
  
He hadn't been a coward. But he hadn't wanted to die. Not anymore. He'd had hope again. He'd felt love again. _He hadn't wanted to die_. But what could he have done? It had been him.  
  
_Begs and prayers and cries escaped into the night, and every angel in heaven stroke up a song of sympathy as The Empty laid silent._  
  
He'd expected it. Hadn't known when, or how, or where, or why, but he'd known. Somehow, he'd always known. Maybe because it had always been him.  
  
It had been him who'd cost him his ninth life.  
  
_Sobs and cries and flames died down as he stood, and walked away._  
  
But he'd been worth it  
  
_Now he was the lost one_  
  
and he'd gotten his will.


End file.
